[ Some mention of homophobic slur ]
⚫
autumn air:
Namjoon is limping his way home, uniform shirt wrinkled up and pants filled with the dirt where he had ended up getting beaten up again.
He sends a quick text to Jackson, telling him he stayed after school to finish up a few essays for their literature class. Jackson doesn't answer back, probably playing the Game with Hoseok.
Namjoon stops at the shade of a tree, leaning on the cool pole of the sign and taking a sip of water to stop the itching of his throat.
He closes his eyes and listens to the few cars that pass by him, the cool wind of fall rushing over his hurting and pounding face.
Namjoon really despises those dudes; they've been bullying him since he was a child.
First to take his candy, pushing him onto the ground and running off with a handful of his favorite lollipops.
Then it was his lunch money, curling his hand to his back and gripping his hair as they would pull his money out from his pockets.
When they reached high school is when the hitting started, a swirly on the toilet just because they wanted to "play around" with someone. Then it'd be a shove to the dirty floor and a harsh kick on his stomach.
And now that he's in his final year of school, it's gotten worse; he comes to his house hiding his face and arms, putting on his mother's make-up to not worry her. Telling Jackson and Hoseok that he's fine, he has everything under control.
But, he doesn't. He does not have anything under control because today he was jumped again.
The leader of the group laughing at Namjoon who tried to cover his face from the punches, but to no avail, since the biggest of the group had forced his hands away and let the short annoying one throw a few punches and finally kick his stomach. They threw spit at his face, sneering at him for being so weak, for being an easy target.
"You'll never be anyone in life Namjoon. Just a weak and pathetic fag."
Namjoon would always hold back the tears, shutting his eyes tightly and willing for the bullies to leave him alone.
All bloody and bruised, with his heart hurting more than any of the bruises aching on his body.
Those words always seem to strike a chord in his heart, it was worse than any punch or kick or shove those fuckers threw. Because it was true, Namjoon would never stand up to them.
He knew it all too clearly, he would never have the guts to tell them to stop and throw a punch at them.
He dreamt it, of course he did. At night when he was lying on his bed with a book in hand he would think of it, of not being the victim this time.
It was a ritual for Namjoon in a way, something that would give him hope that he could do it, would do it.
